


fine weather and the waxing year, or,

by brittaunfiltrd



Series: Up the Hill [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Content Warning: season 4 episode 13 of The Magicians, Fix-It, Friendship, Fruit & fruit metaphors, Gen, Love, Multi, References to Suicide, References to suicidal ideation, References to the Child Ballads, Stubbornness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-28 19:57:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18763144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittaunfiltrd/pseuds/brittaunfiltrd





	fine weather and the waxing year, or,

 

**~~Janet~~   _Margo_ and the Rose**

 

The bottom line is: it’s not about the right words, or the right tuts in the right order. Those things matter, but it’s determination that drives magic. It’s feeling that makes it work. Well, Margo has determination in spades. And what Margo  _feels_ is that this is bullshit.

Margo isn’t interested in bullshit. Margo wants Quentin back. Margo wants  _Eliot_  back. And while Eliot’s little bonfire fruit cult has been grinding themselves into nubs trying to figure this out, Margo is tired of waiting. Margo is going to go out and bring the rubber to the fucking road. She was out of commission, for a bit. The werewolf imprinting really fucked with her head. It's not her fault; Margo is plenty clear on that. But that doesn’t mean she won't jam herself into the works and bring the mill to a fucking halt to fix what happened after.

She cleans herself with salt and rosemary; she leaves her face bare, her hair wet underneath - underneath, soaking into Quentin’s t-shirt; she puts on leggings and sensible shoes; she knots the sleeves of Eliot’s hideous green comfort cardigan, pilfered from his wardrobe after their Trials, around her waist.

She kisses Eliot’s cheek; she doesn’t wake him.

She goes for a long walk on a miserable, stinking, sunny July morning.

She let her feet take her along to where she needed to go last time. They’ll find the path again this time.

She’s going to get this fucking  _done_  if she has to march into another fucking desert to do it.

Or into a fucking garden, apparently, she amends some time later, holding open the door of what should be a poky little bodega, and isn’t.

Margo blows a curl out of her face, steps through, and closes the door behind her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Margo Hanson, the Destroyer, High Queen of Fillory (erstwhile), High King of Fillory (erstwhile), watches her breath fog the air around her, flowers stretching away from her on all sides, an endless unreal sprawl. She’s been here for a while, waiting to see if something will happen. 

Eventually, she shrugs and snaps a scentless yellow rose off its stem, pricking her thumb. She watches the bead of blood form, and draws a breath, and licks it away. 

From behind her – from behind her -

“Hey, Margo.”

She closes her eyes, only a moment, and then squares up with him.

“Quentin.”

He looks so young; young and sweet. Margo forgot.

“Is this really you?”

“Yes. I think so. Maybe.”

“Helpful. Well. I’m already pissed at you, what’s one more thing?”

He smiles at her, apologetic, then ducks his head, hair swinging into his face. “I get that, actually.”

She steps forward, puts her free hand out to brush his hair back; she sees him nearly turn into it before he jerks away, face contorting.

He says, “there’s, um, there’s rules, I can’t, _you_ can’t,” pleading. Margo drops her hand.

“Okay, Q. That’s okay.”

They stand in silence for a while. Quentin fidgets with the drawstring on his hoodie. Margo taps her foot; the snow crunches faintly underneath her weight.

His mouth quirks at one corner, and he points up. “I like, the, um –“

Margo presses her lips together. “Not really my color, I know. It’s just temporary.”

His face crumples again.

He looks up through his wet lashes when he’s calmed down. “I wish you weren't here, Margo. I’m not sure it’s worth the cost.”

“I guess that’s as clear an indication as any that you  _are_ you; only you would say something like that and expect me to just nod along. Of course it’s worth the  _cost_ , Quentin.”

“I’m just saying! I’m - I’m - part of you; maybe part of what you’re going to have to leave behind, here. Maybe you should think about it some more.”

Margo spins the rose, idly, between her index finger and thumb.

“So you’re  _not_  you. You’re just me. Again.”

Quentin shrugs.

“But I need  _you_  you. You’re the one that’s on top of all this fairy-tale shit.” 

Quentin looks around, spins his hand on his wrist at their surroundings. “Aren’t you the one who got you here in the first place?”

“You know what I mean, Quentin.”

“I’m just saying, you’re the former Fillorian Ambassador, my liege,” his voice lifts a little, teasing.

Margo winces.

“Sorry, I, um. All I’m saying is – maybe there's another way?”

“No. It’s been months. Whatever other way there is, we haven’t found it yet. We need you back. We _want_ you back. So this is the way we’re going.”

Quentin rubs his face with one hand, tucks his hair behind his ear. Eventually he nods, reluctant. “Okay.”

Finally –

“Q, why didn’t you  _say_ anything? I love you. You know I love you. You’re  _mine_. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I’m sorry I didn’t notice, but - why didn’t you -“

Quentin ducks his head again. His voice wobbles, a little, when he says, “you know why.”

“No, I _don’t_. I don’t know. What I know is that I’m the one that had to be with them when Alice came to the fucking infirmary to tell us - I’m the one that had to see Eliot’s  _face_ –“ her voice cracks.

Quentin shuts his eyes.

“I can’t even be upset about this for myself, because I have to watch - I have to try and take care of them. And that is  _not_ in my skill set, Coldwater.”

Quentin laughs, wipes roughly at his face with his sleeve.

“I dunno. You do okay.”

“Fucking whatever. I’m not the fucking – caregiving one – that’s you. You and Eliot.” Margo rubs at her forehead with her wrist, catches her cheek with a thorn. “Ow, fuck.” She taps her foot.

Quentin watches her. Awkward, stupid puppy, with his awkward, stupid haircut, his stupid, soft, wet eyes. Attentive, as always. He used to sit, watching her and Eliot, mostly Eliot, for hours, while they talked, flitted around the cottage, flirted, danced.

“You’re my best friend, Quentin. I’ve never told anyone else about the Ambassador thing, you know?”

Quietly, arms crossing over his middle, he says, “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well, now you do. So you get why - I fucked up, I was fucked up, and I’m _sorry,_ and I need you to come home.”

Margo looks around. She taps her foot. She feels – antsy, is probably the word.

“How the fuck do I get out of here? I can’t remember where I came in, and,” she looks down at the rose, “and this is what I came for, right? So how do I get out?”

Quentin shrugs. “I think it’s kinda just – pick a direction, really.”

“Great. Okay.”

Hesitantly, he says, “I don’t know if that’s enough, though. The blood.”

“Okay. What else do I have to give up, then? I haven’t got a maidenhead and I’m not interested in fucking you again anyway, Q.”

“I think it’s sort of – up to you? I mean, there’s the usual: blood, tears, semen. Blood's the most useful, but you’ve given that; tears are next, but you’re giving that. And – what?”

Indignant, Margo says, “I’m not fucking  _crying_ , Quentin.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You’ve been crying for a while,” he says, and then he frowns, looks over his shoulder.

Margo clenches her jaw, raises her empty hand to her cheek. It’s wet. Fuck. 

Margo looks away. She taps her foot. She wants to get the fuck  _out_ of here. Fucking oppressive – wasteland. Her calf aches.

Urgently, he says, “Margo, _listen_ , I love you, I’m trying, okay, and you don’t have to, this isn’t your fault.”

“I know that, Quentin. Assigning myself unnecessary blame isn’t in my fucking nature.”

“ _Margo_ -" he stops, clears his throat. "Well, your nature’s different lately, anyway, isn’t it, Margo?” he says, and his voice is not –  _quite_  – right.

Margo stills.

“It is.”

When she looks back at him, he looks a little different. Sort of – birdlike. Head all tipped to one side. Covetous. A magpie. A bowerbird. A butcherbird. Still Quentin’s sweet face. But not quite.

Margo swallows. Something is - feels like it's piercing her skull, just above her eye. She taps her foot.

“You’re  _not_ Quentin.”

He smiles. “I was and I wasn’t, but I’m not.”

“Great. That’s – great. I really needed more ambiguity in my life.”

“You do have a surfeit of it, nowadays, don’t you, Maggie?”

“Don’t call me that. No one calls me that.”

Margo taps her foot. She needs to  _leave_.

“No. Not anymore. So. What else will you give me? You haven’t a crown to spare, but you do. You haven’t a second nature to spare, but you do. What will you give me this time, Janet? Janey? Jenny?”

Margo –  _nearly_ breaks.

She draws a breath, and another.

She plants her feet.

She gathers herself.

With as much politeness as she can muster, “those aren’t my names.”

He's watching her, amused.

"No, of course not. My apologies."

Margo really doesn't know how to respond to that without being killed horribly immediately after. She elects to move the fuck on.

 _"Can_  I give you this werewolf bullshit?”

“You may. It’s an acceptable exchange rate. Are you sure you won’t need it later?”

“I didn’t need it in my throne room or in the fucking desert. I don’t need it in New York.“

“You're certain you won't need the strength it imparts, Destroyer?”

Margo looks him in the eye, ignoring the aura starting in her peripheral vision.

“I don’t. I have my own.”

He studies her. Margo holds his gaze, and bites her tongue, that pecking in her skull worsening, her stomach rolling, and doesn’t move. Her hand tightens around the rose, convulsive, crushing it, thorns tearing into her – skin, fascia, muscle, bone. It warms in her fist, steaming, giving off a thick, syrupy scent.

Finally, he straightens, looks at her head on.

“Don’t you just, Margo.”

He smiles, puts his hand out, says, briskly, “I’ll take that, thank you.” When she hesitates, confused, he gestures impatiently at the flower crushed in her paw. Hand. Her hand.

With effort, she loosens her grip and drops it, sticky and hot with her blood, blossom stained and crumpled, stem kinked and broken, on his palm. She blinks, and it’s clean, blossom whole and immaculate, stem perfect, a new bud coming up off the other side of the y. She blinks, and his hand is empty.

 _Her_ hand –

He doesn’t look like Quentin at all.

“You may go now, little eagle. You’ll have what you need.”

“Aren’t you going to take the – I feel the same.”

“You’re not.”

“Fine. How do I get out of here?”

“Oh, it really  _is_  just any direction. Of course, if you want to return from whence you came, which most do, you’ll need to go that way.” He gestures off to her left.

She squints, and blinks, and squints again. Eventually the dark shape on the horizon resolves into the Physical Cottage.

“Okay.”

She hears Quentin – the real Quentin – hiss in the back of her mind, can almost feel his anxious shifting, foot to foot, next to her: ' _Margo_!' Fucking nerd.

She swallows thickly, meets his eye again, everything in her shuddering. “Thank you.”

She wraps Eliot’s cardigan more tightly around herself, cradling her right hand in her pocket, and turns away.

She makes it three paces, eyes locked on the Cottage, before he calls out from behind her.

“Margo. I’ll ask nothing further for what you intend to take on your way, but I am obligated to advise that your theft would not go unremarked.”

Margo turns on her heel.

“Why?”

He smiles.

“This isn’t your first time here, Margo.”

She rolls her eyes, says, “yeah, I  _got_ that,” and catches her lip on a tooth, snapping her mouth shut.

His smile broadens, sharp.

“And you always have such interesting things to give. I’ve grown quite fond of you.”

Margo yanks her hand out of her pocket, forces her hands into offensive position.

“And you always react that way, when I say that. It’s an entirely sexless affection, Margo, I assure you, and I have no interest in keeping you here; though I see you retain your suspicion, as you always do, as you should. You may take three more, I think, this time. I recommend a white, another yellow, one of those lovely new black roses; you’ll see them on your way.”

Margo swallows, and repeats, meaning it as much as she can, “thank you.”

“Not at all. I’ll – “ he looks at her again, piercing, “oh, I won’t see you again. Oh, well done.  _How_  interesting you are.”

Margo frowns.

He lifts his hand in farewell, and turns his back on her, walking away.

“You should hurry on, little eagle. The love you seek this time knows you’re here, and he’s frightened. Let’s not give him any more reason to stir things up, shall we?”

Margo bolts forward, hands out, open, spattering blood across the snow - “wait, wait,  _Quentin_  -“

He raises his hand again, snaps his fingers.

Margo hears the door to the Cottage open; that familiar creak.

She stops in her tracks.

She puts her chin up.

She straightens her silver crown with her clean left hand.

She turns towards home.


End file.
